


the heart goes nine

by elfentruthed



Series: No Use Crying [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Feelings Realization, Fluff, M/M, and a very very bad library cataloguing system, and wine in the archives! what crimes will they commit next, because it's not ooc if they're a little tipsy, bonding over wine, season one era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26302087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfentruthed/pseuds/elfentruthed
Summary: “Because you’re stressed. And so am I,” he replied. He twisted to reach into his satchel, then pulled out a corkscrew. “And I don’t know about you, but relaxing is all but impossible for me, so once in a while it’s nice to cheat and get some help with it. Usually I just sit and unwind with it at home, but I figured…” He reached out and offered the corkscrew to Martin. The universe’s strangest olive branch. “Unless you’re opposed?”Jon’s question was not a challenge, nor was it laced with any suggestion of expectation. It was just clarification; an offer to back out if Martin truly was uncomfortable with the prospect of getting wine-drunk with Jon.It's been about a week since Martin temporarily moved into the archives, and between the fear caused by Prentiss and the confusion caused by Jon suddenly being a bit nicer, he's been a bit flustered. This has not gone unnoticed by Jon, who is nothing if not someone who tries to take initiative.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: No Use Crying [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016245
Comments: 40
Kudos: 383
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	the heart goes nine

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the organizers of the Rusty Quill Big Bang for organizing this event and giving me the opportunity and motivation to finally write this idea that's been cooking up in my head for months. And a huge thank you to czterysta for making the awesome artwork to accompany this fic! You can find them and more of their art at czterysta.tumblr.com.

* * *

> Doll boy’s asleep  
>  under a stile  
>  he sees eight and twenty  
>  ladies in a line
> 
> the first lady  
>  says to nine ladies  
>  his lips drink water  
>  but his heart drinks wine
> 
> the tenth lady  
>  says to nine ladies  
>  they must chain his foot  
>  for his wrist’s too fine
> 
> the nineteenth  
>  says to nine ladies  
>  you take his mouth  
>  for his eyes are mine
> 
> Doll boy’s asleep  
>  under the stile  
>  for every mile the feet go  
>  the heart goes nine
> 
> \-- _Songs (VII)_ , E. E. Cummings

* * *

“Martin?”

Martin heard Jon’s voice call out, not too far from the room he currently sat in. He felt his lips involuntarily grimace and his fingers pinched the document he was scanning slightly tighter than was entirely necessary. 

The embarrassment of his encounter with Jon that morning had only set in after he had left the room. He had heard Jon resume his statement, voice even and smooth and unbothered as ever, but Martin stood statue still in his borrowed room, a flustered heat rising to his face as he slowly came to comprehend what exactly had happened. A heat that was returning to his face again now as he heard footsteps approach the door. Christ. To run into any coworker while not wearing any trousers was, quite literally, the stuff of nightmares, wasn’t it? But then for it to happen with your boss? He almost preferred to have had it happen with Elias, it wasn’t like he had to report to him on a daily basis…

“Martin.” 

Martin was snapped out of his reminiscence of the most embarrassing experience so far this year by Jon’s voice, now loud and clear. He had respected Martin’s privacy by knocking on the door, but immediately asserted his authority as Martin’s boss by coming in anyway, and was now peering around the doorway at Martin with an enquiring expression on his face. 

Martin hoped that the redness in his face was not too obviously apparent. “Ah,” he uttered, consciously loosening his grip on the now slightly wrinkled paper in his hand, “yes, Jon?”

“I will be leaving for the day soon,” Jon said. He looked down at Martin’s now relaxed hands. A question pulled an eyebrow up in an expression of doubtful curiosity that Martin knew too well. He looked back up to Martin’s face, and the question he asked was not the one Martin expected. “Do you need anything before I go?”

For a week now Martin had been staying in the archives, and this entire time the energy between Jon and himself had been… strange. Uncomfortable, but perhaps not in the way Martin would have initially expected. For one, Jon was, well, “kinder” wasn’t the right word. If anything he perhaps seemed a little more avoidant of Martin than usual. Not overly so, but Martin had the impression that Jon was shying away from asking him to take on as many research tasks as before, especially ones that required leaving the institute. That seemed to apply to Tim and Sasha as well; Jon had been a bit more insistent with following up on statements over the phone or email as opposed to in-person investigations since Martin’s run-in with Prentiss. Understandable, at least. But on the one or two occasions in the past week that an in-person followup made the most sense, Martin was not the one asked to do it. He wondered what would happen if he tried to insist he go along with Tim or Sasha. Some part of him suspected Jon would be hesitant to let him even if he volunteered.

So no, “kinder” wasn’t quite the right word. “Considerate,” maybe. Less prickly, too. Any mistakes in reports he turned in were not met with demands to fix it or passive-aggressive implications of his forgetfulness or incompetency. Only a gentle reminder to fetch the missing document or complete the missing section of some form. Made this past week somewhat refreshing, actually.

But even with those changes, Jon had never come close to offering to extend some direct favor to Martin, not like this. Even with the ambiguity of this small kindness, then, Martin found himself completely caught off-guard.

Martin blinked, taking a second to shake off the unexpectedness of the offer. He tried not to think too hard about the unfamiliar tightness in his chest, threatening to rise up to his face and add to the already-present embarrassment from that morning and possibly set his ears alight in flame. Now _that_ would be embarrassing. “Oh, um,” he choked out, then briefly cleared his throat. “Um, no, I- I’m okay, I think. Thanks. Erm, see you tomorrow.”

Jon was now halfway through pulling on his jacket, one arm in and the other reaching behind his back to find the other side. Surprisingly quite stylish, actually, though maybe not all that surprising since Jon did kind of seem like the type to appreciate a nice jacket. Lightweight too. Was it already getting warm outside?

“Are you sure?” he asked. His other arm had found the sleeve and slipped through. He looked directly at Martin, seeming to size him up for… something. “If you need any food, or an extra blanket or something, really, I don’t mind going out and getting it…”

After shrugging briefly to straighten everything out, Jon’s voice trailed as he began to focus his attention on the buttons. Bottom to top. Of course he would button things bottom to top. He seemed the type.

Wait, what the hell was that supposed to mean?

“I’m _fine_!” The strange tension in Martin’s chest all at once released, coming out in his voice as a firm snap. His eyes widened, finding himself in shock at his own outburst, then he cast his gaze to the ground. “I-I’m fine, Jon. Thank you, though. I don’t need anything.”

Out of his periphery, Martin could see that Jon was looking directly at him again, his fingers frozen and hovering over the second button from the top. After an excruciating moment of silence, Martin heard Jon hum briefly before returning to finish buttoning up. 

“I see,” he said, his voice lower and more tentative. “Well… Goodnight, then.”

“G’night,” Martin muttered. He still did not look at Jon, instead turning his eyes back to the stack of papers before him.

His eyes were only on the documents for a moment, barely yet glancing over the words on the page, when he heard the door to the document storage room begin to creak shut. A minor panic began to rise in his chest; yes, he had cast Jon out, but somehow hearing him prepare to leave felt too real. Too… final?

Too _isolating_. At least with that last interaction left hanging in the air.

“W-wait,” Martin uttered, the nerves showing through as an almost imperceptible wobble in his voice. Fearing his voice was too soft to be heard, he spoke again, “Jon, wait!” not realizing until the words were out that Jon had already stopped in his tracks and turned halfway around to look at Martin from the corner of his eye. As if he had anticipated Martin calling out.

It didn’t matter.

“‘m… S-sorry,” Martin muttered. His voice was just barely above a whisper. Still, Jon turned more towards him as he spoke, bracing a hand on the door frame. “Sorry,” Martin repeated, “I didn’t mean to snap like that. It’s just been- I mean, I’m just… stressed? Still haven’t gotten over last week, with…”

Martin trailed off, trying to find the words to continue his train of thought pinning his current mental state on the experience of being a prisoner in his own flat. But the words wouldn’t come, not without embarrassing him by threatening to make him cry in front of Jon, and thus sat and choked up in his throat. 

Jon said nothing, no snark or annoyance, and his expression was not even one of disdain or disappointment. His mouth dipped into a slight frown briefly, and he closed his eyes with a soft nod of understanding. Martin felt his heart skip as Jon’s eyes opened, once again looking straight into him, his stare soft and sympathetic as opposed to the cold and piercing glare Martin had somewhat gotten used to.

“Anyway.” Martin’s eyes made their way back down to the floor, but his voice remained strong. “I guess I just haven’t been sleeping well. But I shouldn’t have snapped. Not at you. I-I mean-” His gaze flitted back upwards, back at Jon, still standing in the doorway, expression unchanged. “I mean, just… Because you-”

“It’s alright, Martin,” Jon blessedly interrupted. He raised one finger from the hand gripping the door frame, then gently tapped it twice. “I understand. No offense taken. Just… Try to get some rest.” He angled his head briefly towards the documents still in a vice grip in Martin’s hands. “Whatever you’re working on can wait.”

The papers crinkled quietly as Martin’s fingers tightened just a bit more. He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts, for just a moment - _alright, your boss told you to take a break. Now you_ know _you let your nerves get to you. Idiot. Just let them go._

He loosened his fingers. His knuckles were stiff from holding the tension for so long. Martin exhaled, then built up some modicum of mental energy to stretch the corners of his mouth into a smile. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll try to take it easy. Make myself some tea. Find something to… Um… Well, something around here has to come close to resembling leisure reading. Right?”

Jon nodded. “Probably better luck checking the library upstairs. Plenty of dry academic texts, wild claims with minimal backing, debunked nonsense tales…” His upper lip curled slightly as he trailed off, and he turned his eyes to the corner of the room as if he had caught himself in some shameful act. He cleared his throat before speaking again, his voice a bit more flat and matter-of-fact. “I think there are a few potentially interesting books in the collection, though. Philosophical reflections, fictional works with relevant themes and metaphors, et cetera. I’ve read very few of them myself, but, depending on what you like…”

Jon’s expression had already been softer than his usual facade, but Martin swore he saw it melt just a bit further as he trailed off once more. Martin would almost think it was sweet, if there wasn’t some other emotion buried just beneath the surface. His own exhaustion, maybe?

Looking just a bit deeper, it almost looked like sadness.

“Anything you recommend?” Martin offered in an attempt to bring Jon back up to planet Earth.

It seemed to have its intended effect. Jon’s eyes snapped back to Martin. “What?”

“I mean, you said you’ve read a few of them. Anything in particular you found enjoyable?”

“I haven’t looked into many-”

“It’ll give me a starting point.” 

Martin felt little remorse cutting him off. No one deserved to leave work in a Mood. But getting up and rushing to make a cup of tea before Jon could walk out the front door would have made his menial attempt at comfort far too obvious, so a rude interruption would have to suffice.

And suffice it did. Jon’s eyes floated up to the ceiling and he began to quietly snap his middle finger in sync with a gentle flick of the wrist- some physical stimulation he seemed to fall into when his mind was cast elsewhere and not paying attention to his own body. Martin felt his own Mood brighten a bit as he realized Jon was trying to give him a genuine answer.

He continued for a bit longer, and as the seconds passed Jon’s brow gradually and slightly furrowed. At some point his eyes squinted and the finger-snapping action stopped. 

“What was the…” he muttered. Two more snaps, then all the tension in his face released at once. “Oh!”

Martin cocked an eyebrow.

“Have you read _We Have Always Lived in the Castle_?”

Martin pursed his lips. The title rang a bell, but it wasn’t quite-

“By Shirley Jackson?”

“Oh!” That name he did know. “Okay, yeah, I think I’ve heard of it. Or, I mean, I’ve heard of her, maybe I’ve read something by her, but I don’t think I’ve read that one.”

“It’s good. You’ll probably like it. Well, I mean, I don’t know what you like to read, but I liked it. Not that- I mean-” Martin watched, mildly entertained, as Jon stammered for a moment before sighing somewhat dramatically. “Anyway. I can’t say for sure that we have it, but the library has a decent selection of fiction and I’d be surprised if at least something by her wasn’t in there. Good luck finding it, though.”

“Oh?”

“The fiction collection organization is baffling. I could never quite figure out how exactly it was supposed to be sorted. I’m glad I didn’t have to utilize it much when I worked in research.”

“Oh.” Martin grimaced, but turned his head down slightly in a charade observation of the papers still sitting in front of him in an attempt to hide his expression. He took a moment before looking back up, his now with a genuine smile. Snark about the library or no, the act of giving a genuine recommendation was something he couldn’t help but deeply appreciate. “Alright, I’ll have to check that one out then!” 

Jon smiled in response, his lips stretched just far enough to reveal teeth. “Good.” He looked down at the floor, almost bashful. His long eyelashes fluttered just above the lenses of his glasses as he blinked a few times before speaking again. “Good.” His voice was softer. “You’ll have to tell me what you think.”

“I will.” Martin felt himself considering the idea of testing some boundary. He almost physically heard part of himself yelling in horror as another part of himself decided to step over that intangible line. “Won’t stand to let you get away with giving a bad recommendation.”

Jon quietly scoffed and his smile widened ever so slightly, completely unfazed by the gentle teasing. Or he was fazed, but luckily not in the direction Martin feared. “No, I wouldn’t stand for that either. Well…” A brief pause. He looked up at Martin again, then released the door frame to raise and tilt his hand in a small, casual wave. “Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin mirrored Jon’s little wave. “Goodnight, Jon.”

Even as Jon finally walked away, leaving the door open behind him, this time it felt more like a _goodnight_ rather than a _goodbye_ , and Martin felt all the better for it.

\--

Of course Martin knew where to find the book.

After all, he was the one that came up with the cataloguing system for the Institute Library. Granted, it was years ago, but it appears as though the people maintaining the catalogue now haven’t switched away from what he had organized all those years ago as a fresh-faced new hire. 

It was indeed a work of fiction, so it was grouped on the shelves nearest the door. Simple enough. Then separated by subject, so someone looking for stories about ghostly encounters wouldn’t be slowed down by volumes upon volumes of anecdotes of haunted houses. Breaking it down into broad genres had seemed nonsensical to him; what qualified a book as horror versus mystery versus literary fiction? Granted, a significant number of volumes could cover a number of subjects, but in that case it would be categorized into whatever felt like the primary topic. And if there was an even spread, then it could be categorized into the “miscellaneous” section. The abundantly large “miscellaneous” section. Luckily, Martin was fairly confident that some Shirley Jackson titles entered the collection while he was organizing the catalogue, or else he would be concerned about how his replacement would have labeled the topics.

...That’s probably not a great concern to have with a library cataloguing system, is it? 

He also wasn’t lying when he said that he wasn’t familiar with this book, so he had had to look up some spoiler-free synopsis of the story to get an idea about which specific subjects it could have been sorted under. Persecution, isolation, murder mystery, family… any of these subjects and countless more could have fit. Christ, or what if it was under _miscellaneous_ ? How did he manage to sort anything into any category other than _miscellaneous_?

“What in the entire hell was I thinking?” Martin whispered to himself. He made his way to the shelves labeled for containing books covering isolation. As good of a place to start as any.

The next levels of organization where “location of events discussed” and “year published.” He had felt so clever as he came up with this system all those years ago, knowing it would facilitate research into niche subjects like “magical realism in the American Midwest (as of 1932)” and “sea monsters of the English Channel (as of 1827).” Then the researchers could find related books in following years, track the occurrence of sightings or development of human superstition over time. 

Nevermind that each niche subject often only had three or fewer books covering it, so the entire collection looked like a jumbled mess to an outside observer unfamiliar with the system. It probably still looked like a regular mess to the staff that worked in the library. Not helped that “magical realism in the American Midwest” could be categorized under either ghost sightings or monster sightings. Or that he still wasn’t sure whether Ohio was part of the Midwest or Northeast, so should it be next to the books about mind readers in Pennsylvania or next to the books about cryptids in Kansas?

And nevermind that sorting by author surname was _below_ all these other useless levels of categorization.

Christ, this system really was a mess. _That’s what happens when you give an underpaid employee hired two days prior the daunting task of organizing an entire library_ , Martin thought to himself. He couldn’t even be mad at Jon inadvertently insulting the system he pulled out of his arse years ago. Jon wasn’t being a dick if he was _right_.

_No wonder Jon is so prickly all the time_ , Martin caught himself thinking. _At least the catalogue entry didn’t take 20 minutes and delete itself immediately afterwards if it decided it was too spooky for a computer._

Martin had just made it to the year the book was published - because God, of course, books get new editions since first publication, maybe with a new foreword or something added, so they got to be counted as brand new publication dates - when he heard the subtle but distinct _creak_ then _thud_ of the foyer door closing.

Jon had left late, as usual, and Martin had secretly acted against his request to rest by spending a little time finishing up reading the documents he had gathered up on his desk. Now after spending who knows how long trying to hunt down this book, it had to be near 9:00 PM. Martin lifted his right wrist to check his watch - _10:18 PM._

Jesus, this cataloguing system _fucking_ sucked.

Hearing the quiet repetitive tapping of footsteps approaching, Martin looked around for some kind of improvised weapon. He felt the desperation rise from his stomach, into his chest, then gripping his throat until he nearly couldn’t breathe. A three-hole punch? _No, likely not forceful enough, an attacker might be stunned for only a moment._ An antique lamp? _No, possibly too forceful, might leave a mess on the books and then what?_ An awl?

An awl.

Martin bounded to the book repair supply drawer and quickly fished out the awl. He never was responsible for the book repair aspect of library maintenance - _probably for the best, if this was how he had maintained a catalogue_ \- but he had always been astonished by how amazingly sharp this tool appeared. Even now, the threat of the tool being ideal for his needs, turning it in his hands he was still in awe of how incredibly dangerous the simple tool appeared.

If it can punch through books, it can punch through… Well. It should do the trick.

The footsteps drew closer, and Martin gripped the awl so tightly he felt his knuckles crack. He had half a mind to hide behind a bookshelf, turn the tables and catch the intruder by surprise, when the footsteps stopped just outside the library door. They knew someone was in here. They knew _he_ was in here.

Martin felt his breath quicken as a mental image formed of a humanoid approaching, more holes than woman, surrounded by a wave of pale worms, squirming, crawling, _undulating_ \--

“Martin?”

Jon’s voice, although somewhat muffled, rang through past the door, accompanied by a gentle knock. 

Martin almost cried out in relief. He didn’t even have time to question why Jon was back at the Institute, especially so late at night; before he realized what he was doing, he was already at the library door. He swung it open so quickly it didn’t even have the chance to creak in protest. Immediately he was met with the sight of Jon’s face, eyes wide in surprise, one hand half of the way from taking one of two bags his other hand was holding, but now frozen in place.

“O-oh,” Jon stammered, “I- I didn’t realize you were standing right there.” A moment of Jon investigating his undoubtedly wild appearance. His eyes landed on Martin’s hand, then back up to his face. “Why are you holding an awl?”

“Oh.” Martin felt a searing heat rise to his cheeks, only growing hotter as the tool slipped from his hand and clattered loudly to the ground. “Oh, I ju- I just-”

“Oh,” Jon echoed. He screwed his eyes shut and his entire face followed suit, contorting into a tight grimace. “Oh, Martin, I didn’t even think- I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m sor-”

Martin held up his hands, as if he were placating a nervous dog. “No, no, it’s alright, really, you just- erm-” Unable to find the words to assure Jon that he had not scared the shit out of him, because he had, Martin held out a hand in offering to take one of the bags from him. “What are you doing back here, anyway? What are those?”

“Oh! Um…” Jon lifted each bag a little closer to his face, considering each one for a moment, then handed one to Martin. “I, uh… I brought wine.”

“Wine?” Martin asked as he reached his hand into the bag to, indeed, pull out a bottle of wine. White. He investigated the label briefly. Riesling, so fairly sweet. He wasn’t going to pretend to be even a tiny bit familiar with different brands, but he saw the vintage was 10 years ago, so there was a fair chance that the wine was at least decent. He caught himself wondering how much the bottle might have cost. “Why?”

“To drink,” Jon replied, matter-of-factly. He rolled his eyes as Martin scoffed at his response. “What do you want me to say, Martin? I bought wine so we can get drunk. Simple as that.”

Martin gawked. _Right now? Here? At the Institute?_ **_We_ ** _?_ These simple questions, and more, sat heavy at the back of his mouth. He swallowed them, hitting his stomach even heavier, and instead said “Okay, but _why_ are we getting drunk?” He tried to put a hair of emphasis on ‘we,’ but Jon either did not notice or barely seemed to care.

Jon clicked his tongue and took a bottle out of the second bag. Red - _Rioja_ , the label said. Nine years old. Martin briefly wondered if Jon had a favorite wine, or if he just liked reds and grabbed new ones at random to try out. 

“Because you’re stressed. And so am I,” he replied. He twisted to reach into his satchel, then pulled out a corkscrew. “And I don’t know about you, but relaxing is all but impossible for me, so once in a while it’s nice to cheat and get some help with it. Usually I just sit and unwind with it at home, but I figured…” He reached out and offered the corkscrew to Martin. The universe’s strangest olive branch. “Unless you’re opposed?”

Jon’s question was not a challenge, nor was it laced with any suggestion of expectation. It was just clarification; an offer to back out if Martin truly was uncomfortable with the prospect of getting wine-drunk with Jon.

Lucky for them both, he wasn’t. Not even a little. Martin reached out and took the corkscrew. Jon’s eyes brightened as it was pulled from his fingers.

“Are you sure you should be encouraging me using alcohol to solve my problems?” Martin teased.

Jon’s face wrinkled slightly, making Martin question whether his little joke was pushing a bit too far. “It’s only a problem if you make a habit of it. Just the once won’t hurt.”

This wasn’t necessarily _just the once_ , but he certainly had never made a habit of stress-drinking regardless. So no, he agreed, it wasn’t going to hurt. “I know,” he said. He hoped Jon could pick up on the unsaid second half - _I was just joking_. But he would never have any real way of finding out.

Jon’s expression softened from its grimace, reapproaching neutrality. “Right. We could go back downstairs to the archives, to the document storage room. At least everything kept there is sealed away in liquid-resistant cases and cabinets.”

Martin nodded. He could pick up on Jon’s unsaid second half, he thought. _And also, with you living there, it’s the closest thing we have here that isn’t entirely a workplace environment._ “Alright,” he said. “I don’t have any wine glasses down there though.”

Were Jon not the aloof type, maybe his next response would have been accompanied by a laugh. Instead, the tone was somewhat snarky. “This isn’t exactly meant to be a classy, romantic date night. We can sit down and drink from the bottles and get drunk without _glasses_ to get in our way and slow us down.”

“Ha!” Martin’s sudden laugh appeared to catch Jon somewhat off-guard with a flush, but he seemingly recovered quickly, demonstrated by a hint of a satisfied smile. “Fair enough. Let’s go then?” 

He leaned forward, bracing himself ever so slightly as if preparing to walk out through the door. Jon nodded. “Let’s go, then” he repeated. He took the first step out, followed in close pursuit by Martin.

\--

It was not long before the two of them were each just over halfway through their bottles, gradually reddening in the face as they snickered over some anecdote Jon was retelling that was possibly not even that funny in the first place. Martin honestly already felt the story slip through his memory like warm butter every time Jon would pause to raise the wine bottle to his lips. But every time he resumed speaking, it was immediately unbearably hilarious again, making Martin’s throat begin to feel raw as a result of the awkward half-snort that constantly kept catching in there. 

Luckily, he did have a beverage in hand already that could serve to soothe that scratchy feeling. Just as the bottle hit his mouth and he began to sip, Jon spoke again. 

“He ended up approving the expense, you know.” Jon shrugged nonchalantly and took a quick sip from his bottle. As he pulled the bottle back away, a quiet, refreshed _ahh_ left his mouth with it. “Really got up my arse about it afterwards, for letting it get to his desk in the first place.” 

Martin choked, just barely able to hold back the mouthful of wine from spilling out. Jon was sitting on the floor with his back against the bed Martin was sitting on; if Martin had accidentally spat, the spray of wine would no doubt have hit at least Jon’s right shoulder, if not the side of his face as well. So instead he struggled to swallow, fighting against the fit of coughs that were also now trying to make an escape after a bit of wine had slipped down his airway.

But he won that struggle. After the mouthful of wine was safe and secure and warm in his belly, he allowed himself to cough. With one hand he firmly hit his chest, while the other casually flapped twice to the side in the direction of a mildly concerned-looking Jon, saying _I’m alright, I’m alright_.

Once he had a second to catch his breath, he looked over to see that Jon’s expression was halfway through its transition from _concerned_ to _entertained_. 

“See, I knew the expense reports had to get through you before making it up to Elias!” he exclaimed, definitely a bit louder than he needed to. He didn’t care. “What, you didn’t notice Tim asking to get paid back sixty-four quid for cronuts?”

“No, I did.”

“And, what, you thought Elias would agree that it was an appropriate work expense?”

“I never said I thought it was an appropriate work expense.”

Martin’s mind stalled for a moment. “Wh… Then why-”

Jon’s expression was no longer one of _mildly entertained_ . A better term for it might be _shit-eating grin_. “I just wanted to see how he’d react.”

Martin’s mind stalled for even longer. _Jonathan Sims, taking the piss out of Elias just to see what happens_. “Was it worth it?” he asked, imagining Jon sitting stone-faced as Elias lectured him. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” There was no hesitation whatsoever in Jon’s reply. Only just now Martin realized how different his words were from his usual crisp enunciation, as if he was trying to speak with a tongue twice as heavy as usual. “Would do it again. Think he has an expense report for a ‘private investigation meetup that was completely totally not a date’ at an artisan custard shop sitting on his desk at this very moment, actually.”

Martin stared in silent awe. After a moment he guffawed, doubling over slightly with a laughter that made the flimsy bed shake a bit. As he did, Jon joined him in his fit of laughter, loud and bright and powerful enough to make him throw his head back. Leaning over like this, Jon’s face angled like that, Martin could see that his cheeks and the tips of his ears were going a bit red from drink. He wondered how red in the face he was, himself. They both must look a _mess_. 

After a few moments, Jon appeared to have managed to compose himself and straightened back up with a contented sigh. Martin took just a bit longer to pull himself back together. He took a few calming breaths then tried to sit back up as well. But he did so just as Jon was tilting the wine bottle back to drink, and Martin’s arm clumsily flopped against Jon’s shoulder at the exact moment that the bottle’s base no longer parallel with the floor. Martin felt Jon shift slightly to the side with a quiet noise of surprise, which very briefly increased in volume as the bottle was bumped from his mouth.

“Oh, shit,” Martin said once he noticed the blotches of red on Jon’s shirt. His white shirt. Of course. “Shit, sorry, I can- _Augh_ , I don’t have anything here to help get that out, I’m so-”

“It’s alright! It’s alright.” Jon huffed in annoyance, appearing to be in direct contradiction to his affirmations. But Martin realized the annoyance seemed much less directed at him, and more directed towards the dribble of wine that had escaped its fate of being a stain on a nice shirt and chose to land on the floor instead. 

“It’s alright,” Jon repeated. He contemplated the shirt briefly and sighed. “It’s an old shirt. Truth be told I’ve been waiting for a reason to get rid of it, anyway.”

“I suppose I don’t mind being your reason,” Martin replied, attempting to let himself feel relieved. It wasn’t quite working.

Especially not when Jon gave a little hum in response, then began to unbutton his shirt.

Martin felt his heart rate immediately skyrocket and suddenly his heart was pounding painfully against his ribcage. Intention be damned, he was a bit too drunk to handle a good-looking man taking off his shirt in front of him. 

_Wait, how long have I considered Jon ‘good-looking?’_ The question hit him like a brick.

Jon’s fingers were deft, apparently despite his own tipsiness, because before Martin could even raise an awkward noise of confused protest the shirt was unbuttoned and Jon was clumsily attempting to shimmy it off his shoulders. Martin’s helpful nature almost had him wanting to reach out to assist, but he was sober enough to realize how absolutely weird that would be and managed to resist the urge. But only just.

He was also just sober enough to notice the unexpected twinge of disappointment upon realizing Jon was wearing a t-shirt underneath the button-up. Just sober enough to recognize that it seemed to fit him quite well, that it emphasized the fact that Jon had nice shoulders. Lean, of course, but not scrawny, as Martin might have previously thought if he ever had the mind to think about Jon’s shoulders. And he was sober enough to realize that seeing someone with a normally semi-formal image now wearing a well-fit t-shirt was inherently…

Inherently nothing. He wasn’t going to let himself finish that thought. He released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and raised the bottle of wine to his lips for a sip that was maybe a bit longer than it really needed to be. 

In his periphery he saw Jon tug the shirt off of one arm and casually toss it to the side. Or rather attempt to toss it, but it caught on his wrist and he was left awkwardly shaking his arm to try to free it. It flopped pathetically about for a bit before finally releasing its hold on his wrist and crumpling to the floor. Rather than picking it up to try to toss it again, Jon awkwardly nudged it away with the back of his hand, like it was a piece of rubbish that he didn’t really want to be touching. 

Martin took another sip. At the same time, Jon turned his head towards him, noticed Martin drinking, then tipped his own bottle forward like some drunken salute before mirroring Martin’s actions.

When they were both done indulging, Martin exhaled in some kind of breathy laugh. There wasn’t any kind of tension in the room - why would there need to be? - but still he felt the need to break it.

“You know, my clumsiness might count as a work risk. Maybe you can write off the replacement of that shirt as a work-related expense.”

Jon snorted, took another sip, then sighed. “I’m an idiot.”

“Glad to see you finally figuring that out-” Martin mentally kicked himself. “-but I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.”

Jon almost didn’t seem to notice Martin’s dig at him. He contemplated his bottle quietly, swirling the liquid inside with a soft smile on his face. “No, I mean…” he started. “I mean for not noticing how funny you can be. Are. Or at least not appreciating it.”

Martin felt his breath catch in his chest again. He wasn’t even really trying to be funny. He didn’t think he was, anyway. He didn’t even really consider himself capable of being all that funny. Was he funny by accident? Can someone be accidentally funny? Without just making a fool of themselves, that is. _Oh god, is he saying I’m making a fool of myself?_

“Oh!” Jon interrupted Martin’s rapidly growing insecurity. “Oh, did you find that book?”

He was clearly unbothered by his prior comment, which made Martin worry a bit less about its underlying intent. If there even was any; Jon was a bit drunk, after all. The change in subject still came as a massive relief. 

“Uh, no not quite. I think I was getting pretty close to hunting it down when you came by.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Martin could have sworn Jon’s ears got just a bit redder. “But I was right about the organization being entirely nonsensical, wasn’t I?”

Martin smirked, though Jon wasn’t facing him to be able to notice. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, I have no idea what the hell I was thinking.”

Jon’s shoulders immediately tensed, then he snapped his head around to look right at Martin. After a second or two of staring at him wide-eyed, Jon groaned and dropped his head back against the edge of the bed. “Christ, I _am_ an idiot. You worked in the library, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“And you catalogued the collection?”

“The fiction collection, yeah, pretty soon after I was first hired.”

Jon groaned again, even more exasperated this time. “Every time I work specifically to try to be nice, for once, I fuck it up.” The last bit of his griping was accompanied by a grand, frustrated hand gesticulation that managed to hit Martin’s shin. Martin reflexively pulled his leg back, which seemed to draw a weary sigh from Jon. He set his bottle down. “Fucking hell,” he said, the second word muffled as he leaned forwards to hide his face in his hands.

“It’s alright, Jon.” And he meant it. Martin knew the comment was not intended to be directed at him. And the sentiment in the first place was appreciated. It felt nice to hear Jon confirm that he was, indeed, just being nice. 

There was a long, drawn-out sigh from behind Jon’s hands. At the end of it he dragged his hands down his face, without any regard for smudging his glasses, while possibly contemplating a very interesting spot on the ceiling. Martin found himself looking up to the same spot to see if there was anything spectacular about it - there wasn’t - and when he looked back down he saw that Jon had pulled up his knees to rest his arms upon them. His head was turned to look away from Martin.

“‘m sorry.” This came out as just a whisper, almost completely inaudible with Jon facing away like that.

“Really, Jon, it’s fine. The library really is godawful.” Martin tried to make his smile apparent in his voice; Jon actually seemed to feel really, really bad about his comment, and Martin didn’t think he needed to be. “Honestly, I don’t know why they went along with it in the first place. Desperate times, I guess.”

Jon didn’t respond. _Not so funny now, I guess._ Martin felt himself begin to squirm a bit.

“No, I mean…” Jon began after a painfully long few seconds of silence. “I mean for… This. For everything.”

Dread settled heavy and cold in the bottom of Martin’s stomach. “Pardon?”

“I-” Jon looked back up at the ceiling, his head tilted far back. He blinked a few times; his eyes were visibly glistening. “I’m sorry that you have to be here.”

Martin scooted a bit closer, ready to offer a comforting hand if Jon needed it. “How do you mean?”

“I mean… here. In the archives. Living in document storage.”

“Jon, you invited me to stay here.”

“I know, I know, I just mean-”

Martin’s stomach dropped with realization. “D-do you want… me to leave?” He couldn’t hold back the tremble of fear in his voice. He didn’t know where he could go. He couldn’t go back home, not with Prentiss still an active threat.

Jon did seem to pick up on Martin’s tone. First his head turned to look at him, then his whole body turned to face him. “No!” he responded. A hand pressed against Martin’s shin. “No, Martin, God, no. I just… I feel _awful_ for having put your life in danger.”

Martin usually likely would have gotten weepy over the prospect of being kicked out from the one place he felt anything resembling “safe.” Jon’s emphatic response to his worry comfortably shoved that feeling to the side, instead replaced again by confusion. 

“You didn’t do that though,” said Martin. “You didn’t ask me to go back to Vittery’s old home, I did that on my own.”

“Yes. But why?”

Martin tilted his head and furrowed his brow. “I said when I gave my statement, didn’t I? Because I wanted to do my d-”

“Due diligence,” Jon finished. So he did remember what Martin said in his statement. “Because up to that point I had expressed such a level of disdain with your work to push you further and further towards putting your own life in danger. And even before that there was that followup to look into that Angela, shit, what if something had…”

Jon’s head and the hand on Martin’s leg dropped. Martin felt that weepy feeling decide it might want to actually make an appearance after all.

“Just… Sorry,” Jon concluded.

All was silent for a moment. Once Martin realized that it seemed Jon was finished, he leaned over a bit to place a hand on Jon’s shoulder. He half-expected Jon to flinch away. But he didn’t. “Jon…”

Apparently Jon wasn’t finished. “I’m not entirely sure why I decided to be like that. Maybe it’s because I knew you were capable of being a phenomenal assistant-” Martin brightened slightly at the praise. “-and I thought that if I maintained some pressure then it would ensure you always stayed at your best. Stupid.” 

That last word came out as a whisper, clearly intended as a self-deprecation. Martin patted his hand on Jon’s shoulder once. Jon looked up at him silently for a second, then continued, his voice back to normal volume. “Or maybe I was afraid that I would let-” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever my excuse doesn’t matter. Clearly our line of work is far more dangerous than I could have anticipated, and I should not be pushing any of you like that. We need to exercise caution. And… and even if it wasn’t dangerous, if everything was normal, you didn’t deserve it anyway. You’ve been nothing but kind to me.”

Pause.

His head dropped once more. “I’m really sorry, Martin.”

That last apology felt more conclusive than the others, giving Martin the feeling that Jon had aired out everything he needed to for now. And it was not a challenge, nor was it laced with any suggestion of expectation. He was not waiting for Martin to accept his apology.

Martin decided to anyway.

“Apology accepted,” he said, and he meant it. This did explain why Jon had seemed more considerate this past week, and Martin was kicking himself for not realizing it earlier. It must have been Jon’s attempt at atonement. Maybe he wasn’t great at recognizing his thoughts and emotions, or at putting them into words. At least not until he had a little bit of wine to help.

Martin glanced over and spotted Jon’s wine bottle still sitting on the floor next to him. He felt Jon watching as he leaned over to pick it up.

“Thanks, Jon.” He held the bottle out. A less strange olive branch. “Really.”

Jon looked at the bottle, then back up to Martin. His eyes still looked wet, but after a moment he gave a small smile and took the bottle from Martin’s hand.

A very long moment of silence filled the room. It was a bit uncomfortable, but it felt right. There wasn’t really anything to be said yet. Jon had not turned back to his previous position of leaning against the bed, and neither of them drank during this time. They both just sat there, with each other, physically feeling the dynamic between them shift.

After what may have been ten seconds or ten minutes of complete silence, Martin felt like it was alright to begin talking again. “So…” he tested. Jon’s head perked up slightly. “Do you think Elias would be angry if he found out we got plastered in the middle of the archives like this?”

Something warm blossomed inside Martin’s chest as a smile graced Jon’s face again. “Maybe. Probably.” He pondered for a moment and tapped his chin. “I wonder if Tim could lend me some of his charm so I could use it to try to convince Elias that the wine was an appropriate work expense? I’m sure he wouldn’t want to see his head archivist get so stressed to the point that I… uh… fuck, I don’t know. Vibrate myself to oblivion or something.”

That was a drunk metaphor if there ever was one. Martin giggled at the ridiculous image. It wasn’t all that ridiculous, actually; if anyone could get so stressed that they “vibrate into oblivion,” it would be Jon. Still, hearing that particular phrasing come from Jon’s mouth was almost unthinkably entertaining.

Jon sighed, but it felt more like a continuation of the joke rather than a sigh of frustration. “No, you’re right. I don’t think I could physically handle channeling even a tiny fraction of Tim’s charm.”

Martin hummed and took his first sip of wine since the change in mood a few minutes ago. Emboldened, he responded, “Honestly? I think you’re good on that front.”

Jon gave him a coy expression, his eyes sparkling. They maintained eye contact for perhaps a second longer than was strictly appropriate. Then Jon hummed, almost musically, and finally shifted to turn back to lean against the bed. Martin was tipsy enough to recognize that he almost felt some pang of loss.

Once settled, Jon squinted at something and clicked his tongue. He removed his glasses and lifted them to investigate them against the light; so he had finally noticed that he had smudged them. He took some time working to clean them, going through a few rounds of blowing hot breath onto each lens and wiping before holding them up to the light to look again. Watching him, seeing his face turned up towards the lights like that, Martin allowed himself to notice how nicely the light played off Jon’s eyes. It almost looked like Martin could see the photons drifting down to settle on Jon’s eyelashes like snowflakes, before toppling over to land on his eyes themselves, making them sparkle. How had he not noticed how beautiful Jon’s eyes were before?

Just as Martin snapped himself out of his reverie and thought to tell Jon that he was pretty sure he had a microfiber cloth around here somewhere, Jon nodded and replaced his glasses on his face, apparently finally satisfied with his work. 

Martin decided he wanted another sip of wine. Once he looked at his bottle, though, a question he meant to ask earlier popped into his head. 

“Oh, Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you get us different kinds of wine?”

“I prefer red.” A statement of fact that was entirely useless.

“Okay? And?”

“...And?”

“Why didn’t you just get two then? Didn’t want to splurge on two nice bottles so you got me the cheap stuff?” Martin teased.

Jon rolled his eyes. “That Riesling was almost twice as much as the one I got for myself, I’ll have you know.” After a second his cheeks were visibly redder from the confession.

Martin felt himself redden too. “Oh.” He decided it wasn’t worth it to dwell on that piece of trivia.

Jon cleared his throat. “I found mine first, then remembered that red wine gives you a headache so I had to find something else. I don’t actually know much about wines in general, but especially not white. That’s part of why it took so long for me to get back.”

“Oh,” Martin repeated. _He spent extra time and extra money to feel a little more confident that he found something good._ He felt his eyes begin to sting a little at the kindness of the gesture, a level of consideration that no one had ever really granted him before. Jon really was trying so hard to make amends. “You remembered about the red wine.”

“Of course I did.”

“What do you mean ‘ _of course_ ’?” Martin lowered his voice in a mocking imitation of Jon as he repeated those two words. “You literally didn’t remember us all going out for ice cream just like two months prior!”

“Going out for wha-” Jon grimaced as Martin snickered at his point being supported. “I maintain that you all completely made that up to mess with me.”

Martin’s snickering continued. “What,” he said, “are you going to tell me you couldn’t recite the Wikipedia article on emulsifiers from memory?”

Jon’s face contorted further. “Point taken,” he murmured, nearly inaudible over Martin’s own giggling.

Martin let himself laugh at Jon’s expense for a moment longer before pulling himself together. “Well, regardless. It was a good pick. ‘s a good Riesling.”

Jon’s annoyance softened. “Good to hear.”

Martin held the bottle out. “Want to try?”

Jon considered it for a while. He bit his lip for a second then, apparently unfazed by the prospect of drinking directly from the bottle that Martin had spent all night drinking directly from, took the bottle from Martin’s hand and raised it to his lips. 

When he brought it back down and swallowed, his nose crinkled. “It’s sweet.”

Martin smiled shyly. “I like sweet.”

A moment of consideration, then Jon reflected Martin’s expression. “Good to know.”

\--

Jon wasn’t sure how long Martin had been completely silent as he ranted on and on about the treatment of “weird” as a joke rather than an interesting facet of psychology to be understood and appreciated. Upon realizing that he likely had been going on for a full 15 minutes without giving Martin the chance to get a word in, for a horrifying moment he thought he had caused offense _again_. Mid-sentence, he shut his mouth so hard his teeth clicked. He snapped around, expecting to find Martin snarling with disgust, or worse, crying silently so as not to impose on Jon’s monologue.

Instead what he found was Martin laying on his back, one arm resting on his forehead, his face relaxed and breath slow and soft with sleep.

Jon felt a wave of relief wash over him at the finding of the cause of Martin’s silence. It had gotten very late - past 2 in the morning, he figured - and he found himself hoping that his prattling on hadn’t prevented Martin from getting the rest he likely desperately needed. He glanced around; both their bottles were empty, and there was now a dried splatter of wine on the floor next to his leg. The least he could do was clean up the mess he brought on in what amounted to Martin’s temporary home.

He groaned as he felt his joints protest against standing - how long had he been sitting on the ground like this? He almost thought to himself that he would regret it in the morning, but he knew he wouldn’t. Not really. Not with all the pleasantness that had come along with it. 

He picked up his own bottle from the floor then took Martin’s from the small table next to the bed, careful not to let the glass clank together. The corkscrew was also on the table, next to the bottle; Jon contemplated it briefly, but decided to leave it there. Perhaps there could be a next time - _why did he want a ‘next time’?_ \- and it would be good to have on hand.

The bottles he would leave in his office to take to recycling later, at a more reasonable time. But he still had to find something to wipe away the stain on the floor. 

When he returned to the room, small towel in hand, out of the corner of his eye Jon spotted a pile of flannel blanket at the foot of the bed. Martin appeared to have just tipped over where he sat, having made no real effort to properly prepare himself for sleep. The room had an ever present chill, and, well, if Jon was going to keep him up half the night with wine and endless chatter, the least he could do... 

As he lifted the blanket and pulled it up to Martin’s chest, he decided he was still buzzed enough to allow himself to familiarize himself with some of Martin’s features. His face and the arm on his forehead were both peppered with moles and isolated freckles, almost suggestive of a constellation that could have spread across his entire body. His hands looked a bit rougher than Jon might have previously thought if he ever had the mind to think about Martin’s hands. And one side of his hair seemed to have some wave that was slightly out of place, some kind of cowlick that made that bit of hair land awkwardly just above his eyebrow and threatened to slip down to tickle his closed eyelids.

He felt some temptation to brush it away, but he was sober enough to decide against it.

Jon sat back on the floor and leaned his head back against the edge of the bed. He closed his eyes and felt a warm fondness fill his belly. Up until that indeterminate amount of time ago, Martin had been actively participating in conversation with him, tossing out jokes and gentle ribbing, and laughing brightly every time Jon worked up the courage to do the same. Tonight honestly may have been the best company he’d had in years, and Jon felt all the better for it.

\--

Martin awoke to a gentle knocking at the door.

He opened his eyes slowly, then screwed them shut again against the incandescent light. He must have really been out of it if he had managed to fall asleep with the lights on. He groaned and rubbed roughly at his closed eyes, grimacing at the little bit of crust that was eroded away by the act.

“Martin?”

Jon’s voice was possibly the softest he had ever heard it. Martin opened his eyes again, still not adjusted to the light but at least not painful, and turned his head to look over at the door. 

Jon, of course, was standing there, one hand gripping the door frame in a tentative pose nearly identical to the one he had last night before he left. He had his jacket on, already buttoned this time, and an umbrella in hand.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said, his voice just a little louder now.

Martin lifted his wrist to check his watch, knowing that if he was out of it enough to sleep with the lights on then he certainly was out of it enough to sleep with his watch on. _6:19_ , the face read. 

“No, that’s alright, I actually slept in a bit.” His voice was thick and his mouth felt sticky, either from sleep or drink. Probably both. “Usually wake up around 5:30 without any kind of alarm. Wonder why I didn’t today.”

Jon smiled. “I might have an idea why.”

“Fair point.” Martin pushed himself up to a sitting position and grimaced as the flimsy bed groaned in protest. These kinds of things weren’t usually made with guys of his size in mind; he hoped he wouldn’t break the poor thing. “How did you sleep?” Martin paused, noticing that Jon’s t-shirt peeked out from the collar of his jacket, and his trousers were wrinkled in a strange way. He had not gone home to change. “ _Where_ did you sleep?”

“Um…” Jon scratched at some visible stubble on his cheek. “I uh… I think I kind of dozed off just sitting on the floor like that. Woke up about half an hour ago. Definitely a bit sore from it but honestly? Best I’ve slept in a while. Not sure if that’s something to be relieved or worried about.” He lowered his hand back to the door frame. “What about you?”

Martin nodded. “Also surprisingly well. You did good picking out something that wouldn’t give me a headache. Usually even with that alcohol makes my sleep not properly restful, but this one actually seemed to be pretty okay about that.” He opened and closed his mouth a few times and scowled. “I’m absolutely parched, though.”

Jon nodded his head once in the direction of a little table Martin had brought in to put next to the bed. On it was a bottle of water. Martin felt his face warm and his heart skip at the gesture.

“Anyway,” Jon continued before Martin had the opportunity to thank him for the water. “I was going to head out and find some cafe or something for breakfast. Do you want anything?”

Martin opened his mouth to begin to turn down the offer, out of habit, but shut it as soon as he all at once remembered the entire conversation that led to Jon returning to the Institute in the dead of night to get wine-drunk with him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to repeat the experience; quite the opposite, really. Getting wine drunk with his boss at his place of work was something he may have once considered the stuff of nightmares, yet it turned out to be the most fun he’d had in… weeks, maybe, if not longer. But he did take a moment to appreciate what that experience meant. 

He turned to reach for the water bottle. It took a few sips before his mouth felt less disgusting from the mixture of sugar and alcohol and sleep, but it would do the trick until he had the chance to brush his teeth. 

When it comes to Jon, he realized, these little gestures of kindness aren’t done out of some idea of it being expected. Martin wasn’t sure it was necessarily even because he just wanted to, though that was likely an important part of it, since he doubted Jon would do these kinds of things so readily without complaint if he was against the idea. But it seemed much more important that Jon simply thought it would be the right thing to do.

Martin set the water bottle back to the side and looked up at Jon, who was still waiting for an answer. “Actually,” he began, “if you end up going to that cafe like two blocks down the road, that one with the little bluebird sign in the window? They have a really good English breakfast tea that I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to having. And maybe some kind of pastry to help hold me over until lunch?”

Martin felt like he was vibrating unpleasantly at the entire act of telling Jon what he might like for a small breakfast. The feeling of imposing was so ingrained into him. But Jon just smiled and nodded once, apparently pleased with the development from yesterday. “What kind of pastry?” he asked. Then, “Something sweet?”

Of course their conversation was only just last night, but Martin still felt himself blushing at the thought that Jon remembered he said he liked sweet. And it could have been a trick of the light, but… Jon looked like he might be blushing too.

“Yeah,” Martin replied. “Something sweet.”

Jon nodded again. “Good to know.” _Okay, yeah, he knew_ exactly _what he was doing_. “See you in a bit, Martin.”

Martin waved. “See you soon.”

After Jon walked away, as soon as his footsteps were no longer audible, the worst seven words in Martin’s life filled his mind.

_I have a crush on Jonathan Sims._

He scoffed. “A ‘crush.’ Really. Like some pubescent schoolboy.” He covered his face with his hands, knowing he smudged his glasses in the process, then laughing at yet another replay from last night. “Son of a _bitch_ ,” he groaned.

He allowed himself to wallow in his awkward self-pity for half a minute or so. Then he removed his hands from his face, sighed one more time, and got to his feet to prepare for the day. As he stood, he noticed the dried splatter of wine on the floor. _That’s never going to come out_ , he thought to himself, feeling sorry for the role he had in making that mess. Then on his way out the door, he noticed something on top of a short shelf next to the doorway. A book. _We Have Always Lived in the Castle._

Martin refused to acknowledge the pang of warmth shooting through his chest. At least for now. He could deal with his little schoolboy concerns later. Perhaps he could mull it over once he had a cup of English breakfast in his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the work and have a tumblr account, you [can reblog a link](https://vigiloaudiosupervenio.tumblr.com/post/628487826922766336/) I posted to share with your friends or anyone else you think might like it. I have more ideas cooking up now (a followup to this work...? WINK!), so stay tuned.


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